Just In Case of a Glasglow Smile
by Sinematic
Summary: "Just as I reached the moment where eyelids become droopy and sleep seems imminent, I was startled awake by explosive, horrific sobbing, howling through my open window. I glanced at the clock, which glowed 3:21, and felt conflicted. I knew that no good could become of inspecting this banshee, but hey, I don't buy all those super hero t-shirts for nothing."


My name is Sam Morning, and I'm some kind of insomniac.

I wouldn't necessarily classify myself as a real, full fledged insomniac, but my lack of sleep became bad enough that my, admittedly overprotective, mom finally took me to a psychiatrist and got me some sleeping pills.

I eyed the yellow plastic bottle of white tablets that sat patiently on my desk, like they were proudly waiting for their winning product to inevitably work on dumb, sleepy me. My eyes traveled back down to the blinking game controller in my thick hands.

That was the way I spent my sleepless nights, despite how groggy I felt- playing video games. Name any game that I haven't bought, rented or borrowed, _I dare you._

But tonight was different. After four days of taking these pills, I could feel that internal 'on' switch begin to toggle to the 'off' position and I was ready to take advantage of that. I set my controller down on my nightstand, next to my folded glasses and my _Star Wars_ coffee cup that only ever held hot chocolate. What can I say? Coffee is gross, but I still like to distinguish myself as a man with a coffee cup.

I settled down under my comforter between my superhero sheets and quickly tucked the blankets under my cold feet. People who leave their sheets tucked in when they sleep weird me out. Like, my toes would be getting frostbite if they weren't wrapped up like a hot burrito when I slept.

My room glowed bright blue, courtesy of the fishless fish tank I never bothered to unplug after Swimmy passed. And I didn't mind watching the fake plants sway around, and the bubbling was sorta calming. It illuminated my poster-plastered walls well, allowing me to admire the countless movie and comic book premiere posters I'd collected over the years.

And as my tired eyes traced my walls, recalling stories and adventures for those various posters, my head slowly became glued to my lumpy pillow. The room felt darker, and warm, and I could feel it coming.

I was going to finally sleep.

And just as I reached the moment where eyelids become droopy and sleep seems imminent, I was startled awake by explosive, horrific sobbing, a girl's it seemed, howling through my open window. With my heart racing seven times faster than the average human's, I wondered if my parents had heard. They had to have; this wasn't ordinary crying. This was _'ohmigod I'm being murdered'_ screaming. I didn't hear anyone moving in the hall though. I glanced at my clock, which glowed 3:21, and felt conflicted. I knew that no good could become of inspecting this banshee, but hey, I don't buy all those super hero t-shirts for nothing.

So, abandoning any hope of sleeping that night, I slipped on my glasses, unwrapped my swaddled feet, and stood up. It was almost summer so I didn't need a coat, but I grabbed a pair of shoes and quickly got dressed. I found my miniature _Green Lantern_ flashlight and dug around in a drawer for a bear whistle, _just in case._

I peered out my door, but the house was silent aside from the ghoulish crying that hadn't let up. I thought this was _really_ suspicious, and I considered going back for my limited edition light saber. The increasing volume of the sobbing told me otherwise and I quickly clipped down the stairs. I unlocked our front door and stepped outside, to a fresh chorus of cricket chirping and agonizing, choking, screaming, wails.

It was pretty depressing.

No other lights were turning on in houses on the street, which made me _really_ _really _suspicious. I followed the noise anyway, clutching my flashlight in front of me.

It was definitely coming from the train tracks across the street; the ones that sat on top of the huge, long hill I used to climb when I was younger and more energetic. Now that I'm "big-boned" and sleepless, this hill looked like pure evil. It sounded like pure evil too, what with the tortured sobbing and all, but this damsel was in distress and good ol' Sam would not back down! No matter how bad he was shaking and wheezing, and, oh _hell _was that a raccoon and, wheeze, and, pant, and dear _Jesus_ does this hill ever end?

Once I reached the top, I heaved myself from my knees and glanced around. No one to the right. No one to the left. The piercing wails had stopped.

Now I was _really really really_ suspicious and my pants were suddenly in danger of needing changing. I stood statue still and listened to my own violent heartbeat. Then I picked up a muffled, breathy moan. I looked around again, but this time in the unsettlingly deep darkness I picked out a tiny black figure, curled up on the ground between the slated tracks, it's head between it's knees.

It was looking at me.

I clicked off my flashlight. If I couldn't see it, it couldn't suck out my soul or drink my spleen. Those were the rules.

But I could still pick out two shiny dots in the distance: eyes. Not menacing demon eyes, but glassy, tearful, sad ones. Suddenly I remembered why I'd gotten up from my bed in the first place.

"Hello?" I called out softly. And bravely, I might add.

A tiny sniff was the reply. I was about to say something else, when this sniff evolved into a whimper, which transformed into a small sob, which morphed into a full-blown shuddering writhing screaming. It was as if this creature was being ripped in half and being set on fire. Those eyes darkened into two small hands, and it was back between it's knees. Rocking.

Without another thought I ran over to it, my red converse shoe bottoms bending over the large rock terrain of the tracks.

"Hey, hey! It's okay! _It's okay!"_ I chided, tentatively sitting down beside it. Being so close, I keenly picked out a few details.

It was a girl. It was a teenage girl, with long blonde hair and skinny, tan arms smeared with blood and bright pink scars. Her knees and forearms were decorated with weeping welts; a square metal blade sat on her knee, glinting in the dull light, probably the cause.

She was gasping for air at this point, and I gingerly rubbed her shuddering back.

"Hey, you're okay! _Okay?_ My name's Sam, and I'm saying you'll be okay!" I said in what I hoped was a soothing, reassuring voice.

The girl carefully looked up at me; her cheeks were wet and red, her gasping mouth couldn't quite close, and her eyes were indescribably miserable. Smudged with black makeup, something inside her teary, squinting eyes made me think of an abused, abandoned puppy, and I just wanted to burrito swaddle her feet and get her some hot cocoa.

But we were sitting on the cold, sharp train tracks in the dead of night, and I had no idea why.

She spoke up, scaring me a little. Her voice was understandably hoarse and cracking, but it was also pleasant underneath that. "Did.. Did I wake you up?" she asked, her eyes filling with tears.

"No!" I almost shouted. "No, no, no, no, no. No way, Jóse!"

"Then why are you out here?" she asked, confused.

My brain froze. "I.. You woke me up."

It looked like she was about to cry again, so I smiled and quickly added, "But I was awake anyway!"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, burying her face in her hands.

I continued patting her back, rubbing small circles like my mom used to do to me when I was feeling down. "It's perfectly okay," I replied assuredly. I gave her a concerned one over; the girl was an absolute mess. "If I may ask," I began, "what's wrong?"

Her hair left her shoulders as she spun her head towards me, her face swollen from crying but outraged at my question. "What's wrong? _What's wrong?!_ Do you know who I am?"

I cringed, but I supposed mad was better than 'in the throes of despair'. "You're the person who woke me up with her crying, and I'd like to know why," I said, smiling a little.

She looked down, fingering the blade on her knee with her dirty thumb. "Sometimes I come out here to...think. The paparazzi doesn't find me up here."

I squinted my eyes at her. Paparazzi? Wait. Tall. Blonde. Pink shirt.

"You're Dakota Milton!" I screamed; she nodded.

"Dakota Milton," I breathed, amazed that I was actually talking to my of my posters, "Why did you wake me up?"

She looked annoyed for a split second, but it didn't look like she had much energy in her for other emotions beside sad. She noticed my lantern.

"I like that," she mentioned. "I always liked the Green Lantern better than those other guys."

I smiled. "You can have it if you tell me what's wrong," I tempted. She looked sad again.

"I just, I'm just," she struggled on her words, her eyes filling with tears again, as if picturing herself saying whatever she had to say was too horrible to even think.

"Yeah?" I prompted softly, rubbing her bony back with my flattened palm.

Her face contorted in the moonlight and the green glow of my flashlight; the corners of her mouth tearing down like a melting doll, and her eyes, _oh_ her eyes. They were so broken.

"I_ h-hate_ myself so... _so much!"_ she finally managed to say, though it was more like strangled crying by the end. It was probably harder for her to say than me to hear, but there was so much anguish in her words. She had the face of a woman burning at the wooden stake.

"But... you're Dakota Milton, the rich, gorgeous heiress!" I smiled hopefully. "You have so many fans, and friends, and boyfriends, and the news loves doing stories on your amazing lifestyle, and," I desperately tried to think of something else to add, "you have really nice clothes?"

My speech just pounded the final nail into her coffin-esque eyes. She looked dead. "No one understands, Sam," she whimpered, her trembling lips wet with rolling tears. "They don't understand that the real bracelets I have are these scars," she held out her wrist, smudged with blood, "and the necklaces I wear are," her voice dropped to a scared whisper, "nooses. My _smile_ for the camera, it's... it's just... a glasgow smile."

"Like the Joker!" I offered happily, immediately regretting my tone. She gave me a quizzical look, so I launched into an explanation. "You know, like in the Dark Knight. His cheeks were sliced to look like a smile. Glasgow."

"Does it look like I'm joking?" she asked, her voice hard and unforgiving.

Her tone scared me. After all, she had a weapon, although it was just a pencil sharpener blade. All I had was a bear whistle.

"Does this _look_ like the kind of _life_ everyone envies?" she asked again, her voice breaking up into sad clips. I realized then that my motivational speech skills needed work.

"Everyone thinks I have it so wonderful, but no one.. _no one_ sees this," she strained, angrily slapping a coagulating wound on her knee with her fingers. I flinched. She continued. "I wear makeup every day to cover these ugly things up."

"Why, Dakota?" I asked, confused, "You could get help if someone knew!"

Dakota's lips trembled. "No one cares, Sam. They'd just exploit it for a story, and pretend to care but they'd all still make fun of me. My Dad's business would suffer, and then I'd just feel more worthless."

"Dakota..." I started, but didn't really know what to say.

"It's just so-_so hopeless!"_ she wailed sadly, her eyelids pressed shut. I watched a small line of blood trickle down her intact skin. I wanted to help her so badly.

She buried her face in her shoulder and said, muffled, "No one really cares."

I gave her a set look of immense seriousness. In the five minutes I spent in her raw misery, I realized something important. "I care, Dakota."

She looked at me like she was looking through me. _"Prove it,"_ she whispered.

And then she vanished.

And when I turned around to look for her, all I saw was my own terrified reflection in the grill of a deathly, charging, whistling, metal train.

...

My horrified scream was muted out by my babbling radio alarm clock.

I was sitting up, panting. I snapped my neck in the direction of the din chatter. The clock read 8:30 a.m.

I was too confused to turn the blaring radio off. I looked up and saw my posters. I looked at my nightstand and saw my glasses and my game controller, right where I'd left them. After putting on my spectacles, I looked to my desk where the bottle of sleeping pills sat. I felt like it was laughing at me_. Hah, hah! See? You dumb, fat, sleepy boy? I was right. You would sleep._

But had I slept? I searched my walls until I located my Dakota Milton poster. It was small, and pinned behind a few others, but I still remember hanging it up. She had just opened a new clothing store in the mall. I had been at Game Stop, and I just kind of grabbed a poster as I passed because, well, she was hot. And in this picture, she looked so happy.

I trudged downstairs to find my parents situated in the sunshiny kitchen, reading through the paper and drinking their morning coffee. _Bleh._

"Morning, honey bear!" my Mom greeted happily.

"Did you sleep okay, Champ?" my Dad asked.

I ignored both of them. "Did you guys hear something weird last night?"

They exchanged a look.

"No?" my Mom answered me wonderingly, taking a sip from her steaming mug.

My Dad nudged her shoulder and held up his crinkled paper. "Hey, look at this, Dear! That heiress, the Milton girl, is christening a new restaurant today. _Chef's Hatchet?_ What a joke. What does she even do?"

That got my attention. I grabbed the paper from his hands, blocking out their protests. I memorized the address, ran upstairs, got dressed, grabbed something that didn't belong to me, and flew back down the stairs.

"Be careful, Sammy!" my Mom yelled, but I was already out the door.

...

I scanned through the crowd, shoving my way through with rushed apologies. Dakota was already at the restaurant's new doors, holding a giant pair of shiny metal scissors and smiling that winning, pink lipped smile of hers.

I had to get to her.

A little kid in a wheelchair with a broken leg sat parked in front with a bunch of other screaming kids. I squeezed past a few more people, and I could see the security fence now. It wasn't just yellow tape set up here, oh no, there were actual metal barred fences set up.

They look pretty tall. I probably shouldn't jump that. Right? _Legs?_ We haven't stretched? We haven't done any type of physical anything since the push-up of 2006? Legs? _Stop? Please?_

But, my legs didn't listen. And suddenly I was soaring through the warm air, the wind on my face, and accidentally kicking little kids with my back sneaker.

"Sorry!" I called behind me as I ran forward. Dakota's bodyguards weren't expecting a chubby teenage boy to come careening through the crowd (like a ninja), so they didn't have enough reaction time to stop me.

I went directly up to Dakota, who today, looked beyond radiant. Her skin, her hair, her tearless green eyes, everything was flawless. She looked startled to see me, but hey, if a gorgeous guy was running past my bodyguards towards me at dangerous speeds I might not be too receiving either.

Before she could say a word, I pressed something into her palm. "This is yours," I whispered. I didn't mind parting with my Green Lantern mini lantern, not for the look Dakota gave me.

And before her bodyguards could rend me away, I carefully grabbed her arm and brought her wrist to my mouth. I closed my eyes, and I kissed it. It tasted like makeup. I released her and she looked me dead in the eyes, her fingers wrapped protectively around the place my lips had been just seconds before. She knew exactly what I had done, and I would never see a more grateful person in my life. Tears had sprung into the corners of her eyes.

"Don't cry, Dakota! I care!" I screamed, as her bodyguards pulled me away. She stood still, shocked, unable to look away. My blood was pumping. I wasn't done. I pointed at the kid in the wheelchair I may have kicked.

"And _you!"_ The kid looked freaked out, but I was on a role. "Why is it that when someone breaks a bone all they get is special spots for restaurant premieres, and yet when someone's brain is broken, it's like it doesn't matter at all?"

The guards threw me over the fence and dusted off their hands. I landed on my side and promptly got back up.

"It isn't fair!" I yelled, feeling my vocal chords straining. But it didn't matter. The crowd had decided to ignore the crazy guy who attacked Dakota Milton and they went back to watching the ceremony, some glancing back to stare at me to give a better description of the perp to their friends.

The only person not watching the ceremony was the person performing the ceremony. Dakota still hadn't stopped watching me. Her eyes were so broken, and yet, there was a glimmer within them.

_Hope. _

She flashed me a secretive smile, and there was nothing glasgow about it.

And that's how I, Sam Morning, got kicked out of the grand opening of Chef's Hatchet, and how I came about my most important premiere poster.

And a funny thing happened on my way home. I was just thinking about Dakota and basically reveling in life and all it's unfairness, when the hand that wasn't holding onto my new poster slipped inside my pocket. I felt a knobby, wooden cylinder with small openings at both ends.

It was my bear whistle; the one I always kept in a drawer, but took out only sometimes

_Just in case._

_..._

**Thanks for reading, lovelies. I care.**


End file.
